


Fireworks at Midnight

by lemoncellbros



Series: Trouble's Works [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, New Year’s Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 22:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17232311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoncellbros/pseuds/lemoncellbros
Summary: Sherlock reflects on each New Year he’s spent with John Watson.Written by Trouble





	Fireworks at Midnight

Every year since the day he had met John Watson, Sherlock made sure to be with him at the exact second the clock struck twelve on New Year's Eve.  


The first year, they had been at Molly's party, awkwardly standing away from the coworkers Sherlock had never taken the time to know, quietly sipping a cheap wine and both of them eager to go home. Midnight came in a cacophony of the senses, music and overjoyed shouts overwhelming them as the smell of sweat and the taste of humidity seeped into their pores. John hadn't left Sherlock's side the entire night, and by the end of it, Sherlock promised himself that if he could help it, it would be that way for the rest of his life.  


The second year was during the case of the woman and took place in their flat, mere moments before Irene Adler's arrival, and consisted of John typing away at his computer in that peculiar method that Sherlock had come to love; the detective himself curled up on the couch reading something of George Eliot's that quickly became irrelevant. Midnight had passed without any great drama, instead with a small smile from John, who looked up at Sherlock and whispered "Happy New Year" in the voice of someone who had been silent for a while. Sherlock remembered the way the lights from outside had washed over his face, giving his face a soft warmth that he treasured during his two years away from London.  


The third year was the worst by far. It had started with a heated argument between Sherlock and Mycroft over irrelevant things like "safety" and "secrecy" and all of the other "s" words that meant nothing to Sherlock. The only word that meant anything at all to him at that moment was John. That New Year's ended with Sherlock sitting mere millimeters away from him in a bar, cleverly disguised and hating himself as John threw back another drink and continued to stare at nothing. The pain he had felt then was nothing compared to any tortures he would have to endure.  


The fourth year was quite possibly one of the most strenuous adventures of Sherlock's life, and was made up of several cab rides and airplanes, just to reach John, who was standing at Sherlock's grave with a woman he didn't recognise. Sherlock must have spent hours there, far past midnight and far past John's parting, wondering who the woman was and what she meant to John. He couldn't understand it. It was wrong. He spent the rest of the night on the roof of Baker Street, looking up at the stars and still puzzling over this unforeseen circumstance.  


The fifth year hurt. There was no other way to put it. Once again, they were at a party, though this time it was at some unimportant friend of Mary's, with much less people and much more booze. This time John didn't stand with Sherlock in the corner. This time Sherlock was alone, and watched as the colored lights flashed like a silver knife when John and Mary kissed at the stroke of midnight. Sherlock left early, a cigarette between his fingers and misery in his heart.  


The sixth year took place at John and Mary's, a few days after Sherlock shot Charles Magnussen and one day before he was to leave. Sherlock felt his heart twist with every minute that passed, anticipating another kiss, another heartbreak, another something he couldn't have. Instead midnight came in the form of John's laughter and the bumping of their shoulders when Mycroft arrived in a loud tie and with a grimace, which led Sherlock to believe that Mrs. Hudson had put him up to it. Mycroft had looked at Sherlock with pity at the hidden pain in Sherlock's face, and he knew that the tie was for his benefit rather than anyone else's, just so he could see John's smile.  


This New Year's Eve was quiet and peaceful. Rosie was sleeping upstairs, water was boiling in the kettle, and the sounds of partying outside were as fleeting as a blink. The two of them were eating Chinese food on the couch, John with Singapore noodles and Sherlock with beef and broccoli. Some old special was on that neither of them were paying attention to, and it was 11:55 exactly. Sherlock didn't expect much of this New Year's. If it were anything like the second then he would be immeasurably grateful to the universe or fate or whatever controlled that. So he didn't saying anything, just continued to sit and look at the television blankly, wondering what cases and adventures would await them now. John abruptly set down his food on the coffee table. Sherlock turned to look at him, confused.  


"Sherlock," John started, and inhaled deeply as he fiddled with a loose string on the couch cushion. "I'm sorry."  


Sherlock felt confusion shoot straight through him and up to his eyebrows. "For what, John?"  


"For everything. For Mary, for ignoring you, for-" he bit his lip and sighed. "For the morgue."  


Sherlock held back a wince. The morgue. Nightmares of that day still haunted him. The cold walls, the smell of chemicals and the laughter of Culverton, 

John's foot in his side, the anger, so much anger. But he knew how much John hated himself for it. He had seen him in his worst moments, when he was vulnerable, and he saw how it tortured him just below the surface of his eyes.  


"It's okay, I underst-"  


"No it's not!" John almost laughed, but not out of happiness. A pain that hurts so deeply all you can do is laugh to try to avoid it. "It's not okay, Sherlock. It will never be okay. All of that stuff we did was pointless. It wasn't worth it. Me, marrying Mary- it wasn't worth it, it was a mistake. This past year has been full of mistakes," John's eyes flitted upstairs to where Rosie was sleeping, "mostly full, anyway. None of it was worth it. It would've been if it were to save you or something, but it was for Mycroft, or for someone else, and unless it's for you then it wasn't worth it. You're the only thing that's worth it." He ran a hand through his hair, eyes closed. He was so tired. Sherlock could only see that fatigue for a moment. Then it registered, almost at the same time it seemed to for John. His eyes widened and he snapped up to look at Sherlock, panicked.  


"I didn't mean-uh, well-I just-" he sighed. "Oh, you know what I mean."  


And Sherlock did. For all these years there had been that tension, those unresolved words, the hidden phrases shimmering in the corners of smiles, the smallest of looks, the thoughts that stayed in their heads reflected by the other so quickly that they could only see it in themselves. Sherlock gently outstretched his hand and placed it on top of John's.  


A bittersweet sort of smile glinted in John's eyes. "It took us long enough."  


Sherlock smiled back. The clock on the wall ticked, growing closer with every second to the new year.  


He tentatively reached out, hesitated for a second, and placed his hand on the side of John's face. It was just as he'd expected: well worn, wrinkled in places where life had made its mark. A tapestry of memories that he could touch and feel.  


John leaned in, and as the clock struck twelve, Sherlock kissed him.  


Every year since the day he had kissed John Watson, Sherlock made sure to be with him at the exact second the clock struck twelve on New Year's Eve.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I’ve always loved the New Year’s myth that whoever you’re with when the clock strikes twelve will be the person you’re with for the rest of the year, and I thought it worked really well with Johnlock.


End file.
